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ᎠᎬᎪᎢᎻ IN LIFE. 109 marquis had declared in his jealous madness. § In her childlike innocence she had failed to in- terpret aright the conduct of the young soldier, bat now she understood it; now she knew why } he had seemed to change; why his brilliant } eyes had ceased to meet hers with a smile; why his voice had no longer thrilled on her ear in low, eloquent tones. It was because he loved her, and honor bade him leave her.

Leon had discovered the danger in which they stood, and bad nobly withdrawn himself } from her society that she might not see his love, and learn to love him in return. It was this secret love, then, that prompted him to conceal himself under the dark archway of the city gite, that he might bid her farewell on the night she left Paris.

Ah! it was true she had never loved any one better than her husband, or thought she never hal; but she turned, with relief, from the thought of the stern and jealous marquis, who seemed to care for her love no longer, to the remembrance of her graceful, ardent, young kinsman, who was so gay, so gentle, so brave, aud who loved her still. In the ‘wonderful sweetness of this thought she had almost for- gotten the horror and danger that had seemed closing around her, when the voice of one of her attendants recalled her to the present. Her husband had sent for her. She started up, re- poaching herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell so long on one who should be nothing to her, and resolved to banish every remembrance of Leon from her heart.

The marquis met her with his usual cold for- mality—Philip with the same insulting admi- ration; and the evening wore away tediously enough to the young marquise, who was forced } to counterfeit the ease and cheerfulness she could not feel, to hide her fears and suspicions from the watchful eyes of her husband and his guest. At last midnight approached, and the guest was rising to retire to his chamber, when the marquis suddenly proposed that Saint Evre- monde should go with him to see a famous pic- ture, which hung in the chapel adjoining the chateau. They set out, Duroc, the secretary, «ccompanying them, and carrying two tall, wax candles to light the way.

“Madame, will you not go with us?” inquired the marquis of his wife, in a tone which was ‘command, and Vivienne followed, trembling vith a strange, vague terror. Through the great entrance-hall they passed, through a wide, well-lit eorridor, then into narrow passages, which stretched away, black and chill, in the distance; past suites of unused and closed apartments—on, on, down the echoing passages, where the sweep of Vivienne’s silk dress on the stone floor started her with its ghostly sound; where the flickering candles seemed to burn dimly, and the arched walls to be pressing closer to her at every step. Then cameo narrow stairway, a heavy oaken door, which opened with grating hinges, and the chapel was reached. It was low-arched, and dark, and silent; and in the picture they had come to see, the uncertain, wavering light showed them only the white, agonized, yet triumphant face of a dying saint—a young and lovely woman tortured to death by a mocking, reviling, heathen mob.

They turned away from the picture, and the marquis, beckoning them to follow, led the way to a door opposite the one they had entered.

Vivienne hesitated, and ventured to observe, ‘Monsieur, you forget, perhaps, that this door leads to the vaults of the chapel?”

“I forget nothing, madame. I desire you to follow me,” said his stern, pitiless tones; and Vivienne was forced to obey. With limbs that almost refused to bear her, she followed the three men into the dismal chamber the marquis had opened. It was a small, vaulted room, dimly lighted in the day by a single grated window, and communicating by a flight of stone steps with the vaults below the chapel, where lay the tranquil dust of all the proud men and women who had once lived and loved, and hated, and died, in the great Chateau de Hautlieu.

Vivienne entered the gloomy cell, and the heavy door closed behind her. For 2 moment she leaned against the cold, damp wall, fnint with terror and apprehension; then the blood of the brave and gentle Berengers animated her with sudden courage, and she glanced fearlessly and calmly from one to another of the three men who stood beside her.

The burning dark eyes of the marquis gleamed upon her from beneath their heavy eyebrows, as he stood haughtily erect with folded arms.

Saint Evremonde leaned with careless grace against 2 column that supported the arches of the roof, his fair, insolent face and half-closed eyes turned toward her with an evil smile.

Duroc had placed the lights within a niche in the wall, and stood now bending a little toward her, as a beast of prey crouches before spring- ing on its victim. His eyes, too, dark and. baleful, were fixed upon her, and his right band seemed to her to be stealing to his bosom, as if sceking some deadly weapon.

She felt that all was over, the hour of the marquis’ revenge had arrived. There was no